


Fog's Rolling In

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Confessions, Drunken Confessions, First Kiss, Kissing, M/M, Sexual Tension, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: 100-2.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:17:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She's Dom's projection, but she's Arthur's problem.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Fog's Rolling In

"She's _your_ projection, Dom," says Arthur, feeling calm but a little bit blurry.

They're not supposed to talk about this. They _don't_ talk about this. But it's late, or maybe it's early, and the half a bottle of good whiskey between them is a disconnected, dulling influence. Arthur hasn't been keeping count for the last couple hours, but he knows Dom has matched him glass for glass. He knows he's not the only one listing slightly, and he's tired of treading so softly—so respectfully—around the elephant in the room.

The elephant—the problem, rather—is Mal. And maybe she's supposed to be _Dom's_ problem, his own private cross to bear, but it's Arthur she's taken to attacking at every opportunity. It's Arthur she stabs, and shoots, and runs over with heavy machinery.

"She's your projection," Arthur repeats when Dom doesn't respond. "Which means _your_ subconscious is hell-bent on tearing me apart. I want to know why."

"I'll get it under control," Dom mutters, rubbing at his eyes and setting aside his glass.

The hotel suite is a nice one for once, and the plush contours of the couch they're sharing waver a little at the edges of Arthur's vision. He knows it's the alcohol, not a dream, but he still slips a hand into his pocket to palm his die—just to be sure.

"You don't get to dodge the question," Arthur presses. He shifts in his seat, angling his body to face Dom more directly, locking his friend in place with the stubborn force of his focus.

For a second, he sees all too vividly a worst-case scenario flash behind his eyes: Dom standing and walking away, shutting him out. Dom giving up building the dreams in a futile effort to keep Mal out, even as her soulless image grows stronger and stronger, follows ever more persistently. One botched job after another, and Dom slipping away until not even Arthur can reach him—until something gives and Dom simply doesn't come back.

But Dom doesn't stand, and he doesn't walk away. He straightens his shoulders and meets Arthur's gaze, and suddenly looks more lucid than he has in months.

"I can't control her," he finally admits.

"I'm getting that," says Arthur. And even though it wasn't really an _answer_ , relief sings in his blood. It settles his shoulders, calms the anxious nausea in his stomach. "But why is torturing me her favorite hobby?" Because she never goes for anyone else, even when it's more than just the two of them in the dream. Always Arthur, and always, it seems, with a mind set on pain.

Dom hesitates at the renewed line of questioning. His eyes cut guiltily away, and in the moments before he answers, Arthur is left to assume the worst: Dom doesn't want to be here; Dom resents his persistent, stubborn presence; Dom wants him to fuck off but doesn't have the guts to say so.

Every thought lodges colder in Arthur's gut, leaves his insides twisting unpleasantly as he considers the possibilities.

When Dom finally speaks, he won't meet Arthur's eyes. But the words aren't ones Arthur expects.

"She knows you're the only thing holding me back." Dom's tone is the ragged, quiet rasp of confession.

"Back from what?" asks Arthur, genuinely confused. Even with the jacket long discarded, Arthur's suit for once feels stifling instead of reassuring. He feels out of place in his own skin, off balance with the fact that nothing in this conversation makes sense.

"Holding me back from her," Dom clarifies. "Holding me _here_. Keeping me grounded." He finally raises his eyes, and the haunted intensity Arthur finds there is enough to catch his breath low in his throat.

"If it weren't for you," Dom soldiers on now that he's started, "I'd have been lost a long time ago."

"Oh," says Arthur, though the word wants to stick in his throat. Of all the possibilities he had considered, this one never occurred to him. The weight of it is almost too much. It leaves his chest feeling full and tight, relief and a new, terrible sense of responsibility warring in the space behind his ribs.

He's not expecting Dom to kiss him.

It's a quick surge of movement, so sudden Arthur probably couldn't avoid it even if he wanted to—not that he's at all sure he would've tried—and Dom is just _there_. Crowding into Arthur's space, his head angled just so, mouth a hopeful pressure against Arthur's, and Jesus _fuck_.

Dom only touches him with one hand, a ghost of contact on his face that finally settles just below his jaw. Arthur doesn't move.

Dom makes a noise against his lips, needy and indistinct, and when Arthur feels the testing pressure of Dom's tongue he parts his lips instinctively. His body is still rigid, but his mouth apparently _wants_ to be kissed. He stifles a groan, successfully but barely, as Dom shifts against him, as Dom's tongue acquaints itself with the roof of Arthur's mouth.

When the kiss ends, it's as abrupt as it began. Dom is suddenly halfway across the couch, curling in on himself, running shaky hands through his hair.

" _Fuck_ ," he breathes, harsh and soft, and for a moment all Arthur can do is blink. His head is still spinning too fast to allow for coherent thought, and this time he's pretty sure it's got nothing to do with the alcohol.

The words are so soft he almost misses them when Dom whispers a ragged, "I'm sorry." From the fractured look on the man's face, he obviously thinks it's too little too late.

Arthur's pretty sure now would be a great time to formulate a cogent response, but his brain stubbornly refuses to kick into gear. He's still just staring, and Dom is starting to fidget under the weight of his scrutiny.

"I'm sorry," Dom repeats, louder this time, and surges to his feet. Arthur grabs for his wrist, but Dom shakes him off and keeps moving—for the door, Arthur quickly realizes. And he knows, in a heart-stopping, certain flash that he can't let Dom make it through that door. They're standing at a precipice—a defining moment. If Dom disappears now, no force in the world will be enough to bring him back.

Arthur is on his feet almost instantly, following in quick steps to intercept, and this time when he grabs for Dom he gets a solid grip on the man's elbow. Dom still shakes him off, but Arthur takes advantage of Dom's interrupted momentum to plant himself solidly in his partner's path. The only way Dom is getting through that door now is through _him_ , and Arthur can see taut hesitation bring him to a reluctant halt.

"Dom," says Arthur. And he already knows that reaching out is probably the wrong move, but he needs to make a connection and he's got no other ideas. So he reaches out to set a hand on Dom's shoulder. Nothing but that. Just a single point of contact that he hopes will be reassuring.

Maybe it's the sound of his name, or maybe it's the careful touch—hell, maybe it's just the last of Dom's tenuous grasp on the moment snapping in two—but in the next instant he's moving so fast Arthur can't keep up. Grasping with both hands, curling his fingers in Arthur's vest and the crisp collar of his shirt. He drags Arthur close, close enough to share air, and his eyes are flashing sharp and desperate. Dangerous.

But Arthur doesn't make even a pretense of attempting to extricate himself. He levels a calm look at Dom, chin high in challenge, and very deliberately ignores the way the finely pressed fabric is wrinkling in Dom's fists.

Dom's eyes can't seem to choose a focus, darting between Arthur's mouth and eyes and a spot just over his shoulder. And Arthur's not an idiot. He knows Dom is struggling, trying to let him go without a repeat performance of what happened on the couch.

"I need to leave," Dom suddenly blurts, a rushed confession on an anxious exhale. "Arthur, don't you see? I need to leave before I fuck us up."

"We're already fucked up," says Arthur, and he can actually feel a hint of a smirk threatening at the corner of his mouth. "And you need to stay right here."

And then, without giving himself time to think it through, he closes the dwindling space between them and presses his mouth to Dom's, offering a second kiss.

Dom's reaction is instantaneous—heat and eager hands and lips parting to accept everything Arthur is offering and then some.

Arthur grunts in surprise when he thumps bodily back against the door, with Dom's greedy heat holding him there. He hadn't even noticed the shove that set him in motion—he's a little too distracted by the things Dom is doing with his tongue.

His own hands have found their way into Dom's hair, clinging and inviting and holding on for dear life. God help him, he didn't see this coming, but now he can't stop. It feels almost inevitable, like _this_ is exactly why he's here, he just never figured it out before.

He wonders, suddenly, how long he's been in love with Dom.

When his memory doesn't supply an immediate answer, he decides he'd rather not know. Too damn long, apparently.

When Dom finally stops kissing him, he doesn't let Arthur go. He holds him there, stubborn and desperate, smashed in an undignified press of limbs against the door with Dom crowded along every inch of his front. Dom's head drops to Arthur's shoulder, unsteady heat, and both of them cling all the tighter.

Arthur realizes, almost idly, that Dom is hard—his erection is a line of heat against Arthur's thigh, but there's no active intent there. Dom is clinging too tightly for that, shaking a little, and this moment is about so many things—but sex isn't one of them.

"Jesus Christ," Dom breathes, and the whisper of air against his throat makes Arthur shiver. "Fuck, is there _anything_ you wouldn't do for me?"

Which stings a little, because that's not what this is. Then again, Arthur supposes he can sort of see how it looks from where Dom is standing, and he takes a slow, calming breath and answers, "Yes. Plenty. Are we okay?"

Which only makes Dom cling tighter for a moment, and then his grip loosens but he's still not stepping out of Arthur's space. He nuzzles against Arthur's throat, noses at the shell of his ear, and whispers, "This doesn't solve anything.

"Dom—"

"I still can't control her."

"We'll figure something out," Arthur says, and is surprised at how easily he believes it.


End file.
